


The Mindreading Deduction (You Should)

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD modernization, Asexual Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, F/F, FemJohn, FemSherlock, Femlock, First Kiss, Gender or Sex Swap, Grey-A Sherlock, References to Cardboard Box, References to Resident Patient, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is quietly reading the paper when Sherlock unexpectedly intrudes upon her thoughts. This is my interpretation of the mindreading scene from The Adventure of the Cardboard Box/The Adventure of the Resident Patient, where Holmes figures out what Watson is thinking and jumps right onto that train of thought. Except this time it isn't about General Gordon and the Civil War ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mindreading Deduction (You Should)

"You should."

"I should what?" Jon snapped, jarred out of her private thoughts. Sherlock was now about to answer some question Jon had likely asked days ago-- one she deemed important at the time but had long-since resolved on her own upon being, inevitably, ignored. Sherlock smiled like a... like a goddamned crocodile. Like she was about to steal Christmas. Like some other metaphor Jon was entirely too pissed off to come up with. Or was it a simile? Whatever it was, fuck that.

"You should come over here, straddle my lap, and kiss me."

Jon's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"Oh come now, don't look so shocked. You remember when you read that passage in one of Poe's stories where the protagonist follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion. You were annoyed at how he ruined the realism with hyperbole. You wouldn't believe me when I claimed to be in the habit of doing the same thing."

"Oh, no, I said no such thing."

"Perhaps not with your tongue, but certainly with your eyebrows. So, when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of eventually breaking into it, as a proof. I had no idea your mind would lead me down this path when I began the process, however." The grin returned.

"I've... fine. If I ask you about this I will have just confirmed it, right? All right. Fine. It's what I was thinking, damn it. But, I've just been sitting quietly in my chair; what clues could I possibly have given you?"

"You have a rather naked face, Jon. It gives you away."

Jon responded by making her face as stoic as possible-- her mouth drawn into a carefully thought out hard line. She aimed for a sort of neutrality of tone as well-- as if she was only moderately interested--but the words themselves had the opposite effect. 

"Do you mean to say that you read my entire train of thought... just from watching my face?"

"Your features and especially your eyes. I suppose you can't remember for yourself how it all started?"

"No, I can't."

"Then I'll tell you. After throwing down your paper, which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a typically vacant expression." Jon glared as Sherlock continued without missing a beat. "Then your eyes fixed upon the room and noticed that I had removed the stack of magazines from the far corner, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead very far. You were, at that point, simply grateful I had taken the effort to clean up the flat, however small a dent it may have been. Which was, of course, linked to your next thought... as your eyes flashed across to the untidy stacks of books on top of my desk. Then, you glanced up at the bookcase, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if I could put away _some_ items, perhaps I could be arsed to put away more. There was even a bare space on the shelf which would correspond nicely with the discarded books ."

"You have followed me wonderfully," Jon said, not bothering to hide her sneer at Sherlock's continuing utter disregard for the concept of privacy.

"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts were back to the bookcase and your gaze shifted to the left of the gap, toward _Growing Up In New Guinea_ and one could hardly look upon that without thinking of relativism and her groundbreaking study of culturally influenced norms. Then your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of the mores, one might even say the _programming_ , which had shaped your own life. You shifted slightly physically, corresponding with the mental shift from your early life to your military career."

Jon shifted yet again-- this time far more awkwardly.

"I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of Major Sholto, of the mission which he undertook, your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the public. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of your time at war without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw you look back to the book, your eyes moved to the upper left corner-- you were trying to remember something. 

"You smiled when you recalled it, so I suspected it was likely the title of her other book you were grasping at-- _Coming of Age In Samoa_ \-- the more well-known of Mead's works. This, of course, would indicate your mind had now turned toward sexuality. Specifically, yours and Major Sholto's, as you would merge the new theme with the topic already occupying your thoughts. You have Mary to thank for that planted seed, by the way."

Jon mentally cursed her ex-wife.

"I observed that your lips set, your eyes glistened just a bit, and your hand clenched, and I was positive that you were indeed thinking of what was once a desperate internal struggle of coming to terms with your bisexuality. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were dwelling upon that closeness that either never came about-- useless waste of time?-- or perhaps fell apart under the strain of military fraternization policies. Your hand stole towards your old wound that earned you a trip home, and-- much more wry smile this time-- the ridiculous side of these types of questions of self-definition had forced itself upon your mind. Then... back to where the magazines had been. Why did I have them, exactly? They weren't current. Then you started looking at me. Carefully. Where did they go? In my bedroom, perhaps? Was I putting them to a more... private use?"

Jon blushed on Sherlock's behalf, and looked away.

"You've been trying to make sense of my orientation for some time now. You could just ask, of course. But should you risk it? Is it worth it? You were considering how it would affect our friendship and you dismissed the idea. You were concerned; what if you made an overture and I rejected you? What if I wanted to stop at just a kiss-- would you resent that-- to have opened the floodgate of emotion only to have a barrier firmly in place? Your indecision on the matter was palpable. So, at this point, I broke into your thoughts to agree with you that further inaction was preposterous, and I was pleased to find that all my deductions had been correct."

"Absolutely." Jon was quiet. "And now that you've explained it, I admit I'm just as amazed as before. And as confused. I had thought you weren't interested in that sort of thing."

"I hadn't been."

"But you just started this whole thing with... _are_ the magazines in your bedroom?"

"They were, in fact, purchased as research on weaponry, not for the physique of the men therein. Oh, and a few about mercenaries and what makes them tick. Though I will admit to finding some of them quite aesthetically attractive, since you are, no doubt, wondering. And, yes. They are currently in my bedroom. I have been... looking through them. I'll admit to being curious about them. The... men, this time. Not the ammunition."

"So, you... _are_ straight?"

"Jon. That detail is irrelevant."

Jon just stared. She eventually found her voice. "How... how can you say it is irrelevant?"

"Because you are asking the wrong question. You are asking me what label I have chosen, based on a binary that I don't support, measured on a scale of numbers from 1 to 6 tied directly to a personal past history of activities which I have not yet participated in. I'm letting you know... should you choose to make a sexual advance, I would not reject you."

"Is this... are you making a sexual advance to me, now... then?"

"No. I don't care much about it. It doesn't affect my daily life, and I could go years without. But, you seem to be rather the opposite. It affects every fibre of your being. I'm merely informing you of my willingness to participate."

"This is weird."

"You were expecting 'normal'? Whatever that is?"

"No. I wasn't expecting _any_ of this"

"Lack of practical experience aside, I am well aware of the variants of sexual acts. I simply never saw the point in engaging in them with another. And as far as _we_ are concerned... yes, orgasm releases chemicals used to facilitate emotional bonding. I certainly don't _need_ that to feel emotionally bonded to you, but I don't see how it would be detrimental. Of course, if you want me to crave it, to need it---and-- I don't need _it,_ ergo, I don't need _you_ \-- well... that is the erroneous conclusion you will need to resist." Sherlock glared at Jon, who was frozen in place. "And you most definitely need to do so before you come over here and kiss me. I don't want to be saying I told you so some years later, when you have some bout of insecurity because you've convinced yourself if I really wanted to spend my life with you, I would feel compelled to rub our parts together on a more frequent basis."

Jon still remained fixed to her chair. Sherlock battled against a visible frown and modified her inner timetable. Had what she said been that revolutionary? Perhaps. Perhaps it was. As much as it was abundantly clear this was what she had been wanting, Jon might need a bit more time to think it through. She slowed her pace down. She knew she could be overwhelming at times. She took a breath and continued. 

"And of course... if you require something closer to enthusiastic consent... you can act as if this conversation had never occurred... and our friendship will continue on as before." _Damn it! What else is there to think about here? It was the simplest of offers!_ "Although, I suppose it is possible well into the act. Given a sufficient level of physical arousal, I may wish to experience additional contact or sensation. Or not. Or sometimes yes and other times, no. I offer up no promises-- save for an open mind and a sense that we will find something mutually satisfactory the vast majority of the time?" 

Jon sighed, more in exasperation than eroticism.

Sherlock was quiet. She was being difficult again, wasn't she? Well, that's that, then. No one could possibly want a sexual relationship with anyone as entirely difficult, nay, impossible to handle as--

Jon stood up slowly and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting, still as a stone, in her chair. She stood slightly to the side, by Sherlock's left knee. She placed her weight on her right leg and swung her left over Sherlock's slender thighs. The chair was wide enough that she was able to kneel forward and still had ample cushion for her knees. Good. She wasn't getting any younger, and her knees sometimes felt even worse than her shoulder. "Like this?" she said. 

Sherlock swallowed, presented with a Jon leaning forward in her lap, which put her directly at eye level of her breasts. Sherlock angled her head up in what she hoped was a polite gesture. 

Jon laughed "It's fine with me if you stare at them a bit. Lots of people do. Been told they are my best feature by the honest ones. The ones who just wanted to hop into bed usually said it was my eyes."

"But your eyes are very--" Sherlock finished off the sentence in an embarrassed mumble, "Oh, of course they do." 

"Too bad they have next to no sensitivity. Larger ones often don't. Not very practical. Now these, on the other hand..." Jon hovered her hand right on the edge of Sherlock's breast. "It's all fine until you tell me it's not fine, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And if I find out it wasn't fine, and you just acted like it was for some idiotic reason," Jon raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, "I shall be _very_ pissed off."

Sherlock nodded again as Jon drew closer, and swallowed. 

"As I was saying... now _these_... these look just the right size for me to fit entirely in my mouth." Sherlock closed her eyes and took in a single gasping breath as Jon continued moving her right hand until it swept up the side of Sherlock's breast, fingers flying away just before they reached her nipple. "But... first things first. You had a request."

Sitting on Sherlock's lap, Jon's torso was considerably higher than usual, which made Sherlock have to tilt her head back to reach Jon's lips. She did so, exposing a beautiful column of pale neck. It was Jon's turn to inhale. "Oh, no, Sherlock." She shook her head in mock disappointment. "This won't do. I am finding myself distracted from my task by the desire to spend the next ten minutes kissing, licking, maybe nipping on this neck of yours. I'll have to improvise." 

Jon gently ran her fingers down Sherlock's neck as she leaned in for the kiss. At first, her lips brushed softly, chastely, before pulling back. Sherlock leaned instinctively forward in pursuit, as Jon lowered her head and grinned slyly through her lashes. 

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Sherlock smiled weakly, still a bit uncertain.

"What, me knowing more about something than you for once in my life? Yeah. Yeah, I am. And the prospect of kissing you senseless? Yeah. That especially." 

Jon leaned in again, this time with firmer pressure. Sherlock was more prepared, and returned it in equal measure. Again, and this time Jon's lips pressed against Sherlock's and opened. Just slightly. Jon sucked in Sherlock's lower lip and released it gently. 

Sherlock was growing annoyed at the slower pacing. It felt as if Jon was being apprehensive-- taking an overly-scrupulous approach. Of all the _condescending, patronizing, pusillanimous_... until she saw the wide grin on her face. She was clearly enjoying the gradual build. _Teasing_ , her mind graciously supplied. This is teasing. Well. All right, then.

Jon returned again, and this time they both parted their lips in synch. Sherlock darted her tongue into Jon's mouth hesitantly and touched the very tip, as if sampling an unknown reactant off the tip of her finger to determine its properties. What she got, was wetness. If her mouth wasn't otherwise occupied she would be smiling at her own stupidity. No, no strange volt of electricity. This was a woman, not a live battery. Jon picked up on her sense of surprise and pulled back. "Give it a moment, Sherlock. It's about temperature and sensation as much as about taste. It isn't really licking. It's touching."

"An internal caress of a sensitive part of the body, using another sensitive part of the body. That's what makes it sexual? Mucocutaneous skin and its level of sensitivity? It still seems an odd way to show affection. Reminds me of some derivation of a feeding pattern."

"Well it is odd, at first, I'll give you that."

"You must think me horribly naïve."

"Naïve and horrible don't go together. And naïve implies a lack of wisdom or an innocent. I really don't think either of those could ever describe you."

Sherlock leaned forward again, seeking out another kiss. This time she viewed it much like running her fingers lightly along skin-- far slower and more exploratory. That was much better. Actually, that felt quite good. Soft, and warm, and, "Mmmmm."

Jon responded by tracing her hands lightly along Sherlock's neck, over her clavicle and down her chest, finally moving them away at her waist. Sherlock felt, well, _buoyant_ , as if her body had been underwater and was rising up to the surface. And when she was finally lifted all the way up, a breath of fresh air was waiting for her there that she hadn't known she had needed. Of course you can't kiss yourself. Of course not. 

The kissing continued as she let her own hands reach up to surround Jon's head, fingers sliding through hair that was surprisingly soft and silky. Jon doing the same. Kisses were coming faster now, with more movement, as Jon shifted slightly in the chair to get a better angle. They were less deep and more rapid, as Jon began to scatter them across her face, her ears, her neck...where they suddenly became less like kisses and more like tastes.

"Jon?"

"Yes?" Jon replied, in between light sucks at the junction of Sherlock's neck and her right shoulder.

"That other thing... that you said before? That thing with...." Sherlock's voice trailed off.

Jon stopped kissing and lined herself up with Sherlock as best as she could. "That it's all fine until you tell me it's not? Which part was --"

"No, no, I mean when you said you wanted to put your mouth around my..." Sherlock huffed. "It's _my own body_ , you'd think I'd be able to speak about it without blushing like a schoolgirl." 

Jon smiled. "You mean when --"

"Don't. I can say this. I just, never had to before. I wasn't aware it would be difficult." She squared her shoulders and looked Jon straight in the eyes. "I would very much like you to fit my breast in your mouth."

"I think straddling is less than ideal for that. Might I suggest a change of venue? Bedroom?"

"You read my mind, Jon."


End file.
